Chapter 12: The Men and the god (12) Faith and Fate(3)
Chapter 12: The Men and the god (12) Faith and Fate(3)
Character Map:
"X" = Protagonist
"(X)" = Protagonist's strong inner thoughts
'0X0= Goddess Mnemosyne
'1X1'=Mike?
'2X2'=Calvin?
'3X3'=John?
'4X4'=Norkin?
'5X5'=Belkorn?
'6X6'=Damian?
'X' = Extras
'XXX'= Enemy
Other Notations:
[X] = What is written on something
--- = POV change
|||| = Time skip
== = Time recap
"""" = Return from Recap
(X) = Explanation/author's note
([X]) = Sound effect
{X} = Buttons or actions that may trigger an event
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"I, Dice—the God of Games—have come for honor, power, and dominion over this world. I have come to forge my epic in this realm, to let my name be known, and to let my rule be felt across this land."
At that, silence fell across the entire realm of consciousness—deep, reverent, and eternal.
Well, not eternal, just a moment, after that let's proceed as plan
----------------------------------------------------------------------------(3rd POV Omnicient)
"I, Dice—the God of Games—have come for honor, power, and dominion over this world. I have come to forge my epic in this realm, to let my name be known, and to let my power be felt across this land."
Silence followed, brief but weighty, as reverence settled into the hearts of the six individuals before him—so potent it nearly overwhelmed them.
They had prepared themselves to face a being they believed would be arrogant and prideful, as all the stories warned. From birth, they had been told cautionary tales of aspirant gods—how even a misplaced joke or an irreverent comment could earn a mortal a fate worse than death: divine wrath, curses, or cruel punishments.
Such stories taught them to fear. Taught them humility before divine power. And yet—this god, Dice, the God of Games, stood before them with neither condescension nor fury. Instead, he had done the unthinkable. He apologized—not out of weakness, but with dignity, accepting responsibility for his actions without shame.
Unlike the gods they heard of in the teachings of religious orders—gods who claimed all victories as their own and cast all failures upon their followers—this god bore the weight of his decisions. He did not deflect blame or seek to preserve an image of infallibility. He did not turn away from them.
He stood tall—divine, yet profoundly human.
At that moment, the six could only remain silent, their beliefs unraveling. What they witnessed was something no tale had prepared them for.
And then, shattering yet another expectation, the aspirant god spoke:
"First, are there any thoughts, concerns, or pleas you would like to share? Please, speak freely."
The six followers exchanged glances, stunned once again. Was this truly the voice of a god? One who asked for their thoughts—who invited their voices?
They struggled to reconcile the figure before them with the gods described in myth. Selfish, stubborn deities who silenced mortal concerns—those were the gods they had been warned of.
But this one… this was different.
This god did not shy away from listening. He welcomed the thoughts and well-being of his followers—like a god dreamed of by mortals, longed for by all races, yet rarely encountered in reality. A being of ideals, often dismissed as fiction or fantasy, now stood before them.
And yet, all remained silent.
Except for one.
'2 Then, if you don't mind... 2'
"Don't hesitate. Go on. Let me hear what you want to convey,"
The god replied, his voice steady and welcoming.
The others looked to the speaker in shock—it was Calvin.
Despite the risk, despite all the tales warning against questioning divine beings, he spoke. To the others, it seemed reckless. But even so, Calvin's eyes held conviction as he continued.
"Then, with your permission, my patron... I ask of you: what do you plan for us?"
His words sent a ripple of tension across the group. The others grew anxious, each suppressing the instinct to intervene—or to distance themselves from the question altogether. They remembered the stories: those who dared question the gods often met with wrath, misfortune, or worse.
But even with fear clenching their hearts, they listened closely—for Calvin's question echoed their own unspoken thoughts.
The god did not raise his voice. He did not frown.
Instead, he answered.
"I see. That is a fair question—and one worthy of an honest answer. So hear me well."
A pause. Then:
"I do not intend to let any of you go."
A heavy silence followed. The expressions of the six darkened—grim and uncertain, as the weight of those words settled in.
"But as per our agreement, I will not bind your will. To put it simply: I claim your bodies—but your souls remain free. You cannot leave my side in the flesh, but your choices, your spirits, your wills... remain your own."
He let the truth sink in before continuing:
"There may be inconvenience. Even resentment. I understand. But I am not a cruel aspirant god, nor do I wish to be. As such, I will do what I can to ease your burdens—to honor your freedom, even as you walk under my banner."
At the aspirant god's words, all six individuals were struck with surprise. A moment later, that shock turned to reverence—then to deep gratitude. For a god's words, unlike the tongues of mortals and demons, held truth untainted by lies as it concern their heavenly rule and divinity.
"Of course,"
The god continued,
"words alone are not enough to prove conviction. As the path I walk is full of danger and risk, I intend to share my knowledge and teachings with you—to ease your burdens, so that you may keep up with the journey ahead, and not fall to the perils that await."
Once again, at the words of the aspirant god, the six could only bow—and then kneel.
Before them stood a god so gracious and divine that their hearts ached with reverence.
For it was told in the tales: even gods rarely concern themselves with mortal burdens. And though many claim to grant blessings, more often than not, such power proved a curse. The gifts of the gods were alien to mortals—unfamiliar, hard to control, and at times overwhelming. Many who received such divine power lost control, fell into frenzy, and brought ruin upon themselves and those around them.
To receive power—and understanding.
To receive a god's teachings, rather than be left to flail in mystery.
This was not just divine favor. This was mercy and wisdom, protection and purpose. A rare offering that stood in contrast to the stories told across generations—of gods with tempers sharp as blades, of gods who demanded gratitude even when their "gifts" brought pain.
But here, they were safe. Here, they were seen.
And for that, they felt only overwhelming gratitude for the god they now called their patron.
"Now then, in this place—where space and time bend to my will—allow me to demonstrate the power I shall bestow upon you. I will show you what it is like, how to wield it, and the knowledge and wisdom I can share to ease your burdens and guide your path."
At those words, all remaining doubts were dispelled.
What remained was only faith—pure and unwavering—and reverence toward the one before them.
A god both humane and divine.
An aspirant god who, despite his station, chose to guide, to teach, and to walk alongside those who followed him.